


False Dawn (Stiles, it's called zodiacal light)

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Deputy Derek Hale, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, Hurt Stiles, Immortal Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mates, Navajo Folklore, Protective Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles is like Claire Bennet and Jack Harkness but not, Swearing, Tattooed Stiles, Translated into Русский, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wakes up in the middle of the woods with no memory of how he got there.</p>
<p>Or the one where Stiles can't die, but people keep hurting him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ложный рассвет (Это называется Зодиакальный Свет, Стайлз)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445823) by [ElasticLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticLove/pseuds/ElasticLove)



> Man, I just love to hurt Jeff Davis' precious babies, but then again, so does he.
> 
> Check end notes for spoilers/trigger warnings.
> 
> Rating may change to explicit in the future.
> 
> Stiles' Moon Phases tattoo - http://simplysmilingandsmoking.tumblr.com/post/63498955969

Stiles wakes gasping for breath.  It feels like his throat and chest are on fire, and his head pounds like a orchestra playing a symphony.  He's covered in leaves that are quite literally everywhere, including in his mouth.  Coughing he sits up, and gasps in pain when a burning shot of agony rips through his side.  Too scared to lift up his shirt to check on whatever sort of black and blue bruise is dotting his torso, he ignores it.  So long as he isn't bleeding, he'll be fine, for now.

He is confused.  Every time he's been in a situation where injuries are involved, Stiles has woken up in either his bed, or a hospital.  But now he's in neither.  He's lying on cold, wet dirt in the middle of a clearing in the woods, with no idea how he got there.

Fortunately he recognizes these woods.  They belong to the Hale pack, and by extension him as a decorated member of said pack and the Alpha's boyfriend.  Being in these woods is not strange in itself, it's the context.  Stiles tries to remember.  But draws a blank, the last memory he has involves researching in Sacramento at the museum archives, and looking at old documents about the Hale family's activities during the gold rush.

But somehow he's back in Beacon Hills.  He knows this should worry him more, but he's dealt with weirder shit than this little location displacement fuck up.  At least this time he hasn't woken up in the middle of fuck knows where.  He actually knows how to get home from here. 

Stiles digs through his pockets hoping to find his phone, but when he pulls it out of his back pocket his expensive iPhone is in two pieces.  Of course nothing comes easy for him.  He gingerly gets to his feet, and tries to avoid jostling his side too much.  Looking at the compass function on the watch Derek gave him for their one year anniversary, he begins the five mile long trek back to the pack house.  

*

Stiles feels something cold run through him when halfway through his trek, he figures to check the date on his watch, only to find the tiny numbers saying he's lost three days worth of time from the Monday he was in Sacramento.

He wishes his phone still worked.  Derek worries when Stiles doesn't check in two or more days.  If he had his phone he could check for texts or voicemails to give him some idea of what the fuck happened to him, his mind's processed everything the pack's encountered over the years that could have done this, but nothing seems even remotely plausible.  It's something new, and it frightens him.

An hour later he makes it out of the woods and into the front yard of the two years old, but still shiny, rebuilt Hale house.  Stiles notices there aren't any cars out front on the driveway.  It's eleven in the morning on a Thursday so the pack should be at their various jobs around Beacon Hills.  It's understandable that no one's home.  Isaac would be at the vet's with Scott, Erica and Boyd at the garage, Allison and Danny terrorizing, slash training, people at the gym, Lydia and Jackson at their law office, and Derek at the station with Stiles' father. 

Stiles is proud of his established pack.  They never have omegas wander into their territory trying the unseat the Alpha because of unease among ranks.  The Hale pack hasn't been a group of ragtag teenagers trying to play pack for a long damn time.     

Stiles half walks, half stumbles up to his home, thankfully finding his house keys in his jacket pocket, and unlocks the door.  

Apparently someone is home after all.

Allison sits on the couch, a thousand-yard stare distorting her pretty features.  She looks like she's been through hell.  Her face is bruised all over, and her left eye is swollen shut.  Her leg rests up on the couch, covered in what looks like one of Scott's famous homemade plaster of Paris casts.  It's obviously broken, but her face betrays no sign of pain, her gaze is as empty as ever and she continues to stare at nothing at all, until Stiles trips on Derek's stupid door runner and stumbles stubbing his toe against the wall.  Allison hears his cry of pain, and her eyes focus, widening when she notices him.

"Stiles?"  She croaks, her voice sore, and Stiles observes the thumbprints on her neck.  "How?"  She gulps audibly, speaking clearer.  "Thank the fucking universe Derek was wrong."

Something like shock must pass on Stiles' face because she instantly hardens and draws her phone out of her pocket, hitting speed dial.

Ten minutes later most of the pack surrounds Stiles in the living room sending him looks of combined incredulity and relief.  The only one missing is Derek, but Isaac assures Stiles he's on his way over.

Scott looks him over.  He pulls down Stiles' lower eyelid, shining a light into in.  He cocks his ears listening to Stiles' heartbeat.  But it's only when he pulls off Stiles' shirt to look at the source of pain on Stiles' side that he holds his breath.

"What?"  Stiles questions, craning his head to look past Scott at the clear and smooth mole spotted flesh of his side.  No bruise blackening up his side and absolutely no appendectomy scar.  Stiles runs his fingers along his hipbone to where the pink, shiny scar tissue used to rest, feeling absolutely nothing at all.  Scott looks up at him, his eyes wide.  He lifts Stiles' hand, and tries running his fingers along his hipbone, also feeling nothing.  Scott would remember that scar, he was with Stiles when he collapsed mid finals during their first year at Berkeley.  Stiles still remembers Scott yelling at him for almost letting appendicitis do him in.

Stiles is officially weirded out.

The front door slams open, startling Stiles, and he drops his hand from his side.  Derek marches in, anger dominating his countenance, his face twisted in a look of absolute fury, one Stiles only sees when a member of his pack is seriously threatened.

"Derek."  Stiles whispers, hoping to calm his boyfriend down, hoping to assure him that everyone in the pack is accounted for, but if anything Derek seems even more angry.  He pushes through the wall of his pack surrounding Stiles on the sofa.

He stares down at Stiles, his nostrils flaring, scenting him.  But something must be wrong because Derek's features twist even further until Stiles can hardly recognize him.

Stiles has never seen Derek look like this.  He has never seen Derek look at _him_ like this.

"How fucking dare you."  Derek hisses, his teeth elongated in fangs, digging into his lips. 

Stiles winces as spittle from Derek's acidic words land on his forehead.  He is too shocked and lost to wipe it away.  Did he do something during those three lost days to deserve the pure and unadulterated hate oozing from Derek? 

Scott moves between Stiles and Derek, blocking the Alpha from glaring at him.  "Derek, what the fuck are you doing?"  Scott frowns.

"What I'm doing...?"  Derek draws in a ragged breath.  "I witnessed.  In clear view.  Stiles..."  He closes his eyes, his hands running over his face.  "It crushed his torso and twisted his head right around.  Okay, Scott?  And it made me watch.  So there's no fucking way, whatever the fuck this _thing_ is."  He points at a shocked Stiles, shaking his head.  "No way it is Stiles." 

What?  He's dead?  That makes no sense whatsoever.  He's sitting on his bloody couch, perfectly fine without even a scratch on him.

Scott reaches down, rubbing his hand on Stiles' shoulder, squeezing him in comfort.  "I don't care about what you thought you saw.  He smells like Stiles, he acts like Stiles, for fuck's sake we just bonded over his damned appendectomy..."  Scott trails off.

"I know what I saw Scott."  Derek hisses, sending daggers at Stiles over Scott shoulder.

"You're probably just confused."  Scott says, but there's doubt in his words, and he sends a look over his shoulder at Stiles, eyes dragging to his clavicle, looking for the scar of the compound fracture Stiles got when he was thrown into a tree.  He must not see it because his face twists with so much pain, it hurts Stiles to look at him.  He turns back to Derek, leaving Stiles with his arms collapsed around himself, wondering what the fuck happened to him.  "He doesn't have any of his old scars."

Stiles feels a chilly hand lightly trace the top knob of his spine, where he knows the moon phases tattoo running along his spinal column begins.  He hears Erica's voice from behind him.  "His tattoo is gone."

Derek growls. 

Stiles suffered through hours of pain to get that tattoo, the needle pounding into his skin, jarring the bones on his spine.  The tattoo began at the first knob, and ended in the cleft of his ass.  It was a present for Derek's 30th birthday, and Stiles fondly remembers Derek very much enjoying the unwrapping of that specific present.

And now it's gone, but Stiles doesn't know how.  He reaches behind, running his fingers where Erica's chilly hands traced.  Stiles cannot believe that something so permanent with such symbolic value for Derek, himself, and the pack could disappear so easily.   He stares up at Derek, his eyes wide, tears leaking out, and running over his face.  "What's happening to me?"  He sees Derek falter, before the mask slams back full force, and anger overcomes his features.

"You fucking monster."  Derek pushes past Scott, who readily moves aside, and grabs Stiles around the throat, lifting him clear off the sofa, his legs dangling in mid air, kicking out, trying to find some purchase.  "You couldn't just kill him and be done with it, you had to come back and try to impersonate him."  Stiles is terrified out of his mind, gasping for breath, but Derek's thumb presses relentlessly against his windpipe.  "Wasn't once enough for you?!"

Derek's resolutely looking anywhere but at him, and Stiles fumbles his fingers at Derek's hands, scratching and pulling but with no effect.  The pack stands stiffly by, almost like they want to stop Derek, but don't know if they should.  Stiles begs with his eyes for them to help him, but they ignore him.  "Drek-"  He croaks out desperately.  "Pleas-"  Tears fully cascade down Stiles cheeks, as he watches the man he loves choke the life out of him, refusing to look at him.

Stiles can see the edges of his vision swim in black.  And he succumbs to the darkness.  The last thing he sees, the side of Derek's head.

*

Stiles gasps, shooting up, only to hit his head with a sharp clang on echoing metal. 

It's fucking cold, he realizes, shivering in his shirtless state.  He reaches his hands out, trying to grasp onto any sort clue to where he is.  He feels lost, disoriented, like there is a huge chunk of his memory missing.  He can almost feel the ghost of fingers digging into the skin of his neck.  He touches lightly against his skin, until the biting cold grabs his attention again.  Stiles reaches up, pushing against the metal he hit his head against, feeling it give away with a suction pop.

Light floods into his prison, and Stiles notices it's a chest freezer.  How could he possibly end up in a freezer?  The last thing he remembers is looking over research documents in Sacramento.  He stares at his watch.  Thursday, and ten in the evening.  Three days missing.

Stiles delicately sticks his head out, looking around, only to notice he's in his own fucking basement freezer.  Stiles feels something cold run through him.  Has something happened to the pack?  It's the only thing that can explain waking up in his damned ice cream freezer.

Suddenly Stiles hears the creak of the basement door as it opens.  He quickly scrambles out of the freezer, his throat aching in pain, as he crawls on his hands and knees, crouching and hiding behind Derek's weight bench.

"Stiles?"  A familiar voices gently calls out.

Stiles glances around the bench to see his father standing beside the freezer, looking around.  For him, Stiles realizes.

"Dad."  Stiles croaks.  His father turns to look at him, worry wrinkling his brow.  "What's going on?"

His dad stretches his hands out, palms open to Stiles, almost like he is trying to placate him.  "Stiles, are you okay?"

Stiles takes stock of himself in a way that comes from years of practice, checking out the pain in his neck, only to find it gone.  "I'm fine dad."  His voice is losing its raspiness, and his body warms up, he gets up and walks around the bench to his dad who pulls Stiles into a tight hug, wrapping him up tight in his arms.  He can feel his dad's shoulders shaking, almost like he's crying, but when Stiles pulls away to look at him, he only sees the ghosts of crusted tears on his face.

He hands him a Sheriff's department tee Stiles gratefully puts on.  "C'mon kiddo, let's get you back upstairs."  His dad wraps his arm around his waist, supporting him, even when he doesn't need it.  They walk back up the stairs Stiles helped rebuild.

His dad hauls him out of the basement, and through the house.  They pass through the living room, where the majority of the pack sits morosely, staring down at the floor.  His father spares them no glance, and tries to drag Stiles towards the door, pointedly not looking at the pack.

Stiles notices Derek sitting in the armchair, none of the pack even close to him.  Stiles calls out to him.  "Derek?"  His boyfriend looks up at him, his face blank.  "Why was I in the freezer?"  Derek flinches and looks back down, a look of guilt and utter despair clouding his face.  Confused, Stiles lets his dad drag him from his home.  

*

Stiles' dad places him in the cruiser, going as far to buckle him in, it's humiliating but at the same time strangely comforting.  It's nice to have a person he irrevocably trusts taking care of him.  Stiles just wishes he had his pack too.

When his dad opens the driver's door and gets in the cruiser, Stiles turns to him.  " I can't remember anything.  What's going on?  Why was I in the freezer?"

His dad grips the steering wheel, white knuckled, almost like he's trying to hold in anger, and something stirs in the back of Stiles' mind.  He remembers an anger like this, the memory itches to get out, but something in his subconscious shoves it back down again.  His body doesn't want him to remember.  "I'll explain everything when we get home."

"I _am_ home."  Stiles gestures to his house, disappearing behind them as the cruiser drives away.

His dad's hands tighten further, but he says nothing.

Stiles sits back in the passenger seat, turning away to stare out the window at the trees rushing past along the dirt country road.  He's spent many a full moon running with his wolves out on the preserve. 

It's been eight years since Peter bit Scott, and his life became a shit storm of werewolves and life threatening situations.  But he would never give it up for anything.  It's moments like the monthly pack romp in the woods that solidify the rightness of his decision to get involved with Scott's many wolfy problems.

But it's not only the pack.  It's Derek.  Derek with his beautiful eyes, his beautiful soul, his beautiful everything.  He's been Derek's boyfriend for four very happy years now.  And he's still content to wake up beside a bed headed sourwolf in the mornings.  It's why it hurts so much to see Derek look at him like he's so ashamed he can't tell Stiles what happened to him.  He though they got over that a long time ago.  He thought Derek trusted Stiles enough to tell him anything.  They stopped keeping secrets from each other years before they started fucking. 

It feels like he's missing so much.  What could have possibly happened during those three lost days?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splitting this up into two chapters since it got much longer than I originally intended. 
> 
> Warnings in end notes.

His dad even holds open the door to his childhood home for him.  Stiles is feeling fine, he doesn't need to be coddled, but his dad doesn't seem to understand that.  He finally snaps after he is gently placed on the sofa, and swaddled in an afghan.  "Dammit!  Will just tell me what the hell is going on?"  Stiles questions.  "It's not that difficult.  Just explain how I got from Sacramento, to sleeping in my bloody ice cream freezer, with three days missing from my memory."

"I don't know the details, Stiles.  Derek didn't tell me everything."  He says to him placating, hands flitting over him, trying to tuck him in.  But Stiles is having none of it.  Flinging the afghan off he gets up and stares down his dad.

"Then why am I here?  I should be with Derek if he can tell me what the fuck is going on."  He turns around heading for the door.

His dad lunges out, grabbing his arm.  "No! You can't go back there."

Stiles searches his dads face, but seeing nothing but worry clouding it, he asks gently.  "Please tell me then.  And explain why my boyfriend can't even bear to look at me."

"It's not you Stiles..."  His dad lets go to rub his forehead.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  "Yeah, _it's him_."  He collapses back onto the sofa.

His dad stands at his feet, his hands fluttering, and feet shifting, while Stiles looks up at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"This is going to be hard to believe."  He stops, and starts pacing up and down the room.

"Dad, stop.  Tell me.  At this rate I'll believe fucking anything."

He stares at Stiles critically. "Werewolves are pretty tame compare to this, Stiles."

"Let me be the judge of that."

His father finally stops pacing, and takes a deep breath of air.  "When you were eight, you were hit by a car."

"No I wasn't."  Stiles interrupts, frowning.  "I'd remember if I was once road kill."

His dad flinches.  "Shut up, Stiles.  Let me continue."

Stiles pantomimes zipping his mouth shut.

His dad falls into in his favourite armchair before beginning his story.  "Claudia found you in the middle of the road.  Apparently the car drove off and left you bleeding out.  She was in a total panic, and couldn't think straight, there was just too much blood.  She didn't think to check your pulse, or call for an ambulance.  I heard her screaming and sobbing and came out to find her bent over your prone body in the middle of the road, tearing her hair out.

"I checked your pulse, but your heart wasn't beating, and there was just absolutely nothing we could do.  But Claudia was inconsolable, she blamed herself, she said she should have been watching you better.  I had to do something to calm her down.  Her panic attacks were always so much worse than yours.

"We packed you into the cruiser to take you to the hospital.  Claudia insisted and I tried to convince her it was too late, but she _insisted_ and I just had to, no matter how much it hurt to see your blood soaking into her clothes when she cradled your body on her lap.

"We took you to emergency, and the doctors declared you dead on arrival.  But then all of a sudden, you coughed and took a breath.

"The doctor was puzzled, he thought that your heart must of just stopped beating when you got to the hospital, and he managed to restart it.  I didn't bother explaining you were dead for thirty minutes, he wouldn't have believed me.

"You were in a coma for two more days, and when you awoke you had no recollection of the week before you were hit.  The memories were just gone, along with all your wounds.

"Only Claudia and I knew, and we didn't bother telling anybody else.  Especially when we started noticing all your scars had vanished.  you were a clumsy child, and had a lot of them, but all of a sudden they were just gone.  And to make matters worse your tonsils grew back.  We only noticed until you got tonsillitis _again_ and we had to drive a town over so our family doctor wouldn't question how you managed to grow those back.

His dad sighs, leaning back into the cushions. "It's like your body resets every time you die."

Stiles is flabbergasted.  "Holy shit dad, can you even hear yourself?  That's fucking insane!  What?  So now I'm Claire Bennet?  This isn't a tv program."  He doesn't want to believe a single word he's saying, but there's something nudging at him, saying it must be true, because tonsils don't just magically grow back. 

"Trust me Stiles, please.  Just look at your scars."

"Fuck."  Stiles rubs his side and lifts up his shirt, looking down at the right where his appendectomy scar rests.  Or at least where it used to rest.  Cosmetic surgery couldn't have cleared up that scar in three days time.  "Fuck."  He repeats.

"I'm so sorry, son."

Stiles looks up from his body, glaring daggers at his dad.  "Why the hell wouldn't you tell me that I can't die?  Don't you think that little tidbit of information could have been useful?"

"I was afraid you'd take more risks.  I don't want you hurt, Stiles, I could never want that."

"I wouldn't take more risks."  Stiles crosses his arms, mumbling.   

"Don't bullshit with me, son.  I know you, and I know you would do something stupid sooner or later just because you can't die."

Stiles scowls.  "But now everything's fucked up, because you didn't tell me."

His dad winces.

"You know this really doesn't explain why I was in the freezer."

Stiles sees anger rush back into his dad's eyes.  "Fucking Hale."

Stiles scoffs.  "You're joking.  Even if Derek did find me dead somewhere, the last thing he would do is stick me in the freezer beside my häagen-dazs."

"I never said he _found_ you."  His dad mutters.  "I shouldn't have trusted him, he's a good deputy, but if he just snapped and did this to you-"

Stiles cuts into his dad's rant.  "Wait a fucking minute.  Are you saying Derek is the reason I died?"

"Not only the reason.  He's the one who did the deed."

Stiles laughs in disbelief.  "I don't believe you, Derek would never."

"Stiles..."

"No.  Nope.  Fucking no."

"Stiles."

"Can you hear yourself right now?  You're accusing my boyfriend of four very happy years of murdering me!"

"He admitted to it, and whole entire pack can testify, since they stood aside and did absolutely nothing."

"Are you possessed!?"  Stiles squeaks.  "Why the fuck would he do that?!"

"No one gave me the details.  And as soon as I make sure you're fine, I'm getting right back in my cruiser and arresting that sonofabitch."

"Has the world gone insane?  You _like_ Derek, hell, you hired him."

"He hurt you.  My personal opinion has so stake in the matter.  He's a murderer."

"I'm alive!"

"He didn't intend for you to be."

Before Stiles can reply, the doorbell rings.

"Fuck."  His dad runs his hands through his hair.  "Coming!"  He calls out, before turning back to Stiles.  "We'll talk about this later."  He goes to answer the door, leaving Stiles to his own thoughts.

He hears his dad speak to one of his deputies.  "Higgs?  Aren't you on duty?"  Stiles knows Higgs.  He's unmarried, his parents retired and living in SoCal.  Oftentimes his father invites him over for dinner so they can stew in their shared loneliness.   Stiles tunes out the muted conversation coming from the doorway.

Until he hears a loud crash, Stiles whips his head up, only to see his dad soaring through the air, slamming into a wall, his head hitting with an audible crack.

"Fuck! Dad!"  Stiles jumps to his feet, rushing over to his dad's prone body.  His head's covered in blood running in rivulets down his skin from a wound above his eye.  Stiles quickly scrambles out of his tee, putting pressure on the wound, trying to stop the heavy bleeding.  He looks up, searching for Higgs, seeing him close the door with a slam, as he stalks over to Stiles and his dad.

"Higgs, what the fuck are you doing?"  He looks at the man who used to ruffle his hair and sneak him cookies whenever he visited the station when he was little.  Only he sees an entitled sneer and the face of a creature lost in hatred.  Stiles notices his eyes.  Higgs has dark, black eyes, but this imitation has ice blue eyes, eyebrows drawn down in scorn.

Not-Higgs stops a foot away from them, staring down.  "Well, that would explain it.  You're an anomaly, kid."  It snorts.  "Imagine my surprise, the morning after I broke your neck, I get up, looking forward to changing into you.  _I_ killed the mate of an Alpha werewolf.  _I_ get to copy his body.  But then I can't actually change because somehow _you're not dead_."  It frowns at Stiles like he is at fault for not dying.

Stiles keeps eye contact with the creature, discreetly inching his hand to his father's service weapon.  He almost unclips it before a foot slams down on his hand.

" _Ah, ah, ah_."  The creature shakes its index finger at Stiles.  "Don't even try."  It pushes harder with the sole of his shoe, crushing Stiles fingers, and he lets out a bloodcurdling scream of agony, before the creature kicks Stiles in the chest.  He flies back into the living room, his body slamming into the stone fireplace.  Falling like a ragdoll, he lands right on the hearth.   

"Skinwalker."  Stiles groans out, coughing in agony.  He can feel a rib dig into his lungs, definitely broken.  He cradles his crushed fingers to his chest.  Everything burns and aches and he's in so much pain he feels like he's going to pass out at any moment.

"Yee Naaldlooshii, actually."  The creature hisses, eyes flashing to a bright white.  "I like to stick to my roots."

Stiles narrows his eyes.  "He who goes on all fours.  You're a witch."

"Oh!  You speak Navajo, wonderful.  Too bad it'll be useless in just a few moments."  It smirks at Stiles' groans of pain.  "You see, kid, by taking the place of an Alpha's mate, I can get close to him, and then when his guard is down, I slit his throat, and wham!  I get to shift into an Alpha werewolf, with all the added perks."  It reaches into its coat, pulling out a rusted, curved dagger.  "Healing, strength, speed.  I'm so _excited_." 

Stiles backs up, crawling like a crab, until his back hits the fireplace grate, and suddenly there's nowhere to go.  The witch advances on him, running its finger along the blade of the knife, looking like it loves to play with its victims.  Stiles feels an ache of sadness at the thought of Higgs' painful death.

Suddenly he sees the fireplace set out of the corner of his eye, the fire iron within grabbing distance.  The one thing he knows about skinwalkers; they are even more difficult to kill than werewolves.  Witches, on the other hand, are human.  And they have human weaknesses.

Stiles scrambles to his knees, barely dodging the knife swinging down to his heart, instead it embeds in his outer thigh, and Stiles lets out a yell of distress, as he feels the serrations on the rusty blade when they catch and pull in his flesh, skating bone.  Stiles quickly shifts, stretches out and tries to grab the poker from the set. 

The witch catches on quickly and tries to beat him to it, but Stiles gets there first, firmly gripping the handle in his hands, he uses all his strength to swing it.  It meets its mark, striking the witch on the temple, and it goes down with a thump.  Screaming in fury the witch stretches out, grabbing the knife in Stiles' thigh, it pulls the blade out tearing skin and tissue, blood spurting in lines all over the hearth. 

Stiles barely has the presence of mind to hit the witch again, amid the pure and utter agony running through different parts of his body, but he does, using both his arms as leverage, he stabs the poker into the witch, running it through its left eye socket.  It drops the knife before collapsing to the ground, twitching and stirring feebly before going still.

Stiles collapses only moments after the witch shift from Higgs' form into that of a young man, his skin stretched tight and translucent over bone from many transformations.

Stiles sees his dad lying only feet away, blood sluggishly running down his face.  He could try to crawl over to him, but Stiles knows he is going to pass out soon with all the blood he's losing.  His vision is already blurring and his head feels heavy and fuzzy.  "Fuck."  He groans, with no muscle strength to put pressure on the wound in his leg, he could bleed out at any moment.  Stiles tries to reach out, through the pack bond, trying to contact Derek, to let him know he's in distress, he knows it's weaker among the human members, but he can't just let his father die, and he sure as hell doesn't want to die again.

Stiles closes his eyes, but feels a warm, soothing hand run over his face before he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really graphic depictions of violence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy guacamole, this got long, but this puppy is finally D.O.N.E. done.
> 
> Wow, I just noticed how much swearing I put in this, I should tag it...
> 
> So un-beta'd like omigod.
> 
> Btws they do the sex in this chapter.

A month and a half after Stiles wakes in the hospital with his ribs bound, his leg stitched and wrapped up tight, he's finally healed enough to walk on his own.  Apparently his inability to die does absolutely nothing to speed up his recovery time, and his body healed at a snail's pace. 

All his dad got out of his encounter with the Yee Naaldlooshii was a concussion, fourteen stitches, and an a overnight stay in the hospital to monitor for brain trauma.  Stiles stewed for two weeks in the hospital, only to be released and confined for a month in a wheelchair.  He had to sleep on the damned uncomfortable pull out couch because his room was on the second floor.

The only member of the pack to visit Stiles in the hospital was Lydia.  She stopped by to speak to his father, and drop off a bag full of Reese's cups, satisfying all of Stiles' cravings for sugar, that is until they were confiscated by a nurse.

Lydia sorted out the misunderstanding about the Yee Naaldlooshii with his dad, explaining that Stiles was in Sacramento when he was contacted by a witch in Portland warning him that a skinwalker was heading down to Beacon Hills; death and animal mutilations following its wake.  Stiles had rushed back home in time to help the pack confront the supposed skinwalker on the preserve.  Only it wasn't a skinwalker, it had magic and managed to separate the pack as they were chasing it down.  Its intention was to go after a human member, kill them, and impersonate them in order to murder Derek, and take his Alpha mojo.

The creature tracked down and injured Allison, but she managed to wound it before it ran off, going after Stiles who was superior and easier prey.  Only Stiles wasn't as alone as it intended, Derek was with him.  Lydia explained that the witch shot Derek full of bullets with Allison's gun, weakening him enough that he couldn't protect Stiles when it killed him.  Derek, in rage, pursued the witch after he healed and pushed the bullets out, leaving Stiles' body  behind.  When the witch managed to shake him off, he reconvened with the pack.  Most of them wanted to recover Stiles' body from the woods, but Derek said it would be a waste of time, and he ordered them to track down the witch instead.  Allison called an hour later, saying Stiles stumbled home, but Derek didn't believe he was Stiles.  He thought he was the witch impersonating Stiles, so he killed him. 

Lydia managed to convince his dad not to arrest Derek, but he still took away Derek's badge and enforced his suspension from the sheriff's department.

They found Deputy Higgs' body in his apartment while Stiles was still in the hospital.  Apparently he died while Stiles was in Sacramento.  The witch was squatting in his apartment, Higgs body parts everywhere, torn to pieces.  Stiles shuddered to think that could've been him if he hadn't killed the witch.

Derek doesn't contact him.  And it hurts.  It feels like they are just suddenly over and done with, and it hurts so fucking much because Stiles doesn't even _remember why_ , he just listens absently when his father tells him he should hate Derek for what he did. 

One night, a week after he's released from the hospital, he hears his dad yelling on the phone.  Stiles pretends to be asleep, but he almost chokes out a sob when he realizes his dad is yelling at Derek.  "You were supposed to protect him, not fucking choke the life out of him!"  From what he hears his dad say after, between swears and curses, Derek doesn't even bother defending himself.

So that's why Stiles woke up in the freezer.  Derek thought Stiles was the skinwalking witch.  So?  That's old news.   But Derek _choked_ him and killed him.  Stiles knows that choking can be one of the slowest and most painful ways to die, it's high up there with drowning.  He wonders how Derek could be that cruel, couldn't he have just snapped his neck and be done with it?  That would have been more efficient and less painful then seeing Stiles' face staring back at him as he choked him.

That was not how he wanted to find out the truth about his death.  He wanted to hear it from Derek.  Somehow Stiles finds the silent treatment more unforgivable than the death he doesn't even remember.

Some days Stiles wonders why Derek couldn't just slap some of his magic-sealing runic handcuffs on his wrists when he thought he was the witch, instead of just killing him like that.  It's only the day after he's strong enough to get out of the wheelchair he finds out when Erica and Boyd visit on the pretense of returning his Jeep. 

Stiles doesn't let them in the house.  He goes out to meet them, even though he's not supposed to exert himself, but Stiles couldn't care less so long as his dad isn't there to scold him.

Erica hugs him, sniffing into his neck, not caring that he doesn't return the gesture.  "I missed you, Batman."

Stiles scoffs and detangles himself from her, ignoring her hurt expression.  "If you missed me, you would have visited me when I was lying prone in the hospital."  She flinches at his acidic tone.

Boyd stands at her shoulder, reaching out and taking Erica's hand in his.  "Derek ordered us not to come."

"As if that's ever stopped any of you before, especially Scott."

"He didn't just order us, he _ordered_ us."  Erica frowns.

Stiles frowned.  "He Alpha whammied you?"

She nods her head.

"But he said he would never do that to you guys, he promised me."  Stiles reflects upon the choking, and thinks that maybe that seems exactly like what _this_ Derek would do.

"Well I guess he went a bit loopy when he saw you die, I mean he didn't even check on you, or bring your body back."  Erica sighs.  "He was just all wolf and rage, he _ordered_ us to track the witch down, and it hurt, Stiles." She shudders, like she hates to remember the pain.  "Being forced to obey him like that, like we were nothing but tools to him, like we weren't even his friends, his pack."  Erica stops, her eyes filling up with tears, and Stiles pulls her back into a full bodied embrace, her face buried in his neck as he combs his fingers through her blond hair.

Boyd grips her shoulder in comfort, continuing.  "The only reason we're here today is to drop off your things."

"Wait.  What things?"

Boyd nods his head to the Jeep, and Stiles unwraps himself from Erica, taking her hand in his, before he peeks through the back window.  It's filled to the top with boxes and boxes of, if Boyd is to be believe, his stuff.

"Derek's kicking me out?"  He thought Derek would eventually get over himself and contact Stiles, but nope, he's kicking him out of his own damned home.

Erica squeezes his hand.  "We still have a few more boxes of your books at the house.  We were supposed to take Boyd's station wagon too so we could drop those off, but we figured you'd have something to say about that."  She grins at him.

"You've got that right if Derek thinks he can just kick me out of my home, he's got another thing coming!"  Stiles pulls her to the front of the Jeep.  "Boyd you drive, I'm not allowed to, with the leg and all." 

The back is so full of boxes, he has to sit in Erica's lap the whole ride there, but he doesn't mind, she's a great cuddler.

Derek's out on the porch scowling when they pull up to the house.  Erica and Boyd get out of the Jeep, but don't approach their Alpha, instead they noticeably stay out of grabbing distance as Stiles strides up to the house, returning Derek's sour face with one of his own.

"Honey, I'm home."  He calls out to his maybe ex-boyfriend with a scowl.

Derek ignores him, and barks at his betas.  "How dare you bring _him_ here.  When I give you an order.  I expect you to follow it."  Erica and Boyd shrink down, exposing their throats in submission.

"Derek.  What the fuck's happened to you?"  Stiles' eyebrows furrow, searching Derek's surly face.

Derek's eyes flash to him, before they flicker off his face, and stare somewhere over his shoulder.  Wow.  So now Derek can't even stand to look at him.  "Does your father know you're here?  Go home."

"I am home."  Stiles pushes past Derek, walking into the house, Derek following pathetically after him.  Stiles almost trips over a bunch of boxes crowding up the foyer, _books_ written on the sides.

"Go back to the Sheriff's."  Derek growls as Erica and Boyd slink up the stairs.

Stiles whips around, staring Derek down.  "Why are you defiling the pack bond?" 

Derek freezes, his hands twitching like he doesn't know what to do with them, before he crosses them over his chest.  "I don't what you're talking about."

"You're whammying them.  That's an abuse of power of the bond, you can't do that."

Derek stiffens.  "I'm the Alpha."

"Yeah?  And I'm so sick of all your bullshit.  I don't fucking remember, okay?  And since I don't fucking remember, I don't care what you did.  Get the hell over yourself and stop hurting your pack."  _And me,_ Stiles thinks furiously.

Derek snarls, his teeth lengthening.  "If you're so sick of me, take your things and go already."

"Fuck that!"  Stiles kicks the box closest to him.  "I'm not leaving my home."

"I can't exactly go now can I?"

"And why the hell not?  If I can go, you can go."

Derek roars.  "I'm the Alpha.  This is _my_ pack house.  _My_ pack lives here, not yours."

"Last time I checked, my name is still on the deed right next to yours, and I was still part of the pack you're running into the ground."  Stiles sighs, frustrated.  "I swear, there will come a time when they would rather break the bond than put up with this abuse."

Derek glares stubbornly. "Fuck off Stiles."

"No Derek.  You need to fucking listen to me."  Stiles punctuates his point with sharp pokes in Derek's direction.

"I even can't stand to look at you."

"Well, you're going to have to deal with it."  Stiles crosses his arms, daring Derek to argue with him with a raise of his brow.

A long moment passes before Derek's gaze wavers and he breaks their staring contest, looking down at his feet.  "You're better off without me."

"Annnd there we go."  Stiles drawls sarcastically.  "The whole point of this argument." 

Derek runs his hands through his hair, looking up at Stiles, pleading.  "I hurt you, when I promised I would protect you."

"Yeah, you did and that was pretty damned shitty of you.  Buuut, I forgive you."

Derek scoffs.  "You only forgive me because you can't remember what I did."

"I know exactly what you did, Derek.  I may not remember, but it's been explained to me in great detail."  Stiles walks up closer to Derek, standing a foot's width away from him.  "I forgive you because I love you,  but you have to stop letting your temper control you.  I thought you overcame this a long time ago, but apparently not."  Stiles sighs, reaching out and gripping Derek's sleeve.

"You let your anger take over and you didn't stop to _think._  Witches that skinwalk can't imitate scent, but they can steal appearances like scars, and tattoos.  You didn't even stop to question why mine were missing.  Derek, one of these days your anger will make you do something that can't be repaired, and it's going to hurt much more than it does now."

Derek tries to turn his face away, but Stiles tugs hard on his shirt, forcing his attention.

"You _need_ to try, Derek.  I'm not leaving you, I will get you through this, but after, if you still want me to leave, I will."

Derek finally turns to looks Stiles in the eyes.  "I would never wantyou to leave.  I just want you happy."

"I will be, but only when you are."  He drops his hand from Derek's shirt sleeve, letting his arm dangle at his side.  "I love you, sourwolf, no matter how stupid you are."

*

Their relationship doesn't magically go back to normal, and Stiles doesn't want it to.  He still loves Derek, but at the moment he doesn't have the capacity to love him physically.  It's not just the sex.  Stiles can't sit beside Derek on the couch, can't cuddle with him, hell, he can hardly even look at him, at his hands, his arms, without morbidly imagining what they felt like around his neck, choking him. 

Stiles sleeps in Danny's empty room, the hacker long since moved in with his human boyfriend.  The room converted into a storage area where he keeps the computer equipment he doesn't want his boyfriend to find.  Anyhow, whenever Danny does sleep over he usually puppy piles Jackson and Lydia in their room.  As a result Danny's room, unfortunately, only has a day bed.  It's smaller and less comfy than the king he used to share with Derek, but at least it's in _his_ house, and that's what matters.

His dad doesn't agree, of course, and he calls Stiles at least twice a day to grumble and check up on him, often sending a deputy to the house, bringing either doughnuts or food along with excuses to just wander around the house, reporting back their findings to his dad.

One of the deputies must have noticed Stiles shacking up in Danny's room because his dad calls Stiles up one night, with absolute undisguised _glee_ in his voice. "So Stiles, how's it going with Derek?"

Stiles groans.  "I'm not moving back in with you, dad."

"Dammit." 

His dad grumbles _a lot_.

Weeks later and they're still working on it.  Derek and Stiles often Skype with Deaton, who moved to Brazil after Stiles graduated from Berkley and inherited Deaton's place in the pack.  As the new emissary to an established wereleopard leap, Deaton's constantly at work with leap business but he always takes time out of his week to talk with Derek about controlling the wolf and his anger. 

It's Deaton who convinces Derek to go for long runs every day in his human form.  So every morning and evening Derek runs through the preserve without fail, Stiles' ipod in his ears.  The runs aren't for his wolf, they're only for his human side, calming him down, and letting the wolf know who's in charge.

Deaton trains Derek not to think of Stiles as his anchor when he shifts, instead concentrating on the pack as a whole.  It not only strengthens his control, but makes him a fantastic Alpha.  He bonds with the pack, and even Scott sometimes chooses to beside him during movie night.  Stiles joins the cuddles, but still chooses tuck himself between other pack members, away from Derek.

Eventually when Derek's made enough progress, Deaton contacts a colleague, an weretiger monk, in rural India, and cashes in a favor for the pack.  Derek buys the monk's plane ticket and he flies to Beacon Hills, meeting Derek briefly at the airport, before they both hop on a connecting flight to Southern Arizona, to the middle of the Sonoran desert.

Midway through Derek's trip Stiles develops a throat infection, and after a trip to the doctor he's informed his tonsils are inflamed.  This time Stiles is lucky.  He caught the tonsillitis in an early stage, so they don't have to be removed, instead the doctor prescribes antibiotics.  Everyone in the pack coos and caws over him, since Stiles' throat is so sore he can't speak for days.  And no matter how much they love him, he can tell they love the peace and quiet just a little bit more.  Boyd even spends the day beside him reading while Stiles stews in his silent boredom. 

Derek spends a month in the desert with the monk, and Stiles is up and chatting again by the time he comes home with a dark brown tan and a smile on his face.  The calmest Stiles has ever seen him.  Derek never tells anyone what happened in Arizona, but Stiles like to imagine it went somewhat like Buffy's vision quest in the desert, except with fewer death metaphors.  There's one werewolf in all the world, and all that jazz.

Derek comes back with total control of his wolf.  One day Jackson jokingly punches Stiles lightly on the side, right in front of Derek, and he doesn't even shift his position on the sofa, let alone wolf out.  Before, he would have flung Jackson across the room, breaking bones.  But Derek just laughs, and Stiles is just _so_ proud, he doesn't even think about why he stopped touching Derek, he leans down pressing a soft kiss to Derek's forehead.  The look of wonder Derek gives him when he rises back up makes everything worth it.

A week later Stiles moves his things out of Danny's room back into Derek's.  The whole pack helps with smiles on their faces, laughing as they work together.  Derek beams like the sun when he tacks up Stiles' ridiculous posters, smoothing out wrinkles.  Stiles watches Derek run his fingers along the spines placing all his books back reverently on the empty shelves.

Stiles sits next to Derek that night on the sofa, the bright smile Derek projects, melting him.  Stiles has never been happier.  Over the years Stiles knew his relationship with Derek was always overshadowed by something deeper and darker; the hatred he feels for Kate, the utter despair he feels for his family.  It isn't gone from Derek.  He just doesn't channel it through his wolf's rage anymore, instead he processes it with his humanity; going for runs, cuddling with the pack, it helps him so much.  And Stiles knows he's never been more at peace.

One night Stiles wakes up spooning Derek from behind.  Since the day he moved back into their room, Stiles always slept on his side of the king mattress.  Derek respected the distance, knew he needed time, and he never pushed the issue.  But now Stiles' arm is curved around Derek's waist, fingers resting lightly in the dip of his hipbone.  Instead of pushing away, Stiles cuddles closer up to him, pressing deeper into the embrace, slotting his hips to Derek's butt, tucking his knees behind Derek's.  Derek makes a satisfied noise, and Stiles drifts back into sleep, content.

They eat breakfast together that morning.  Derek fries bacon and eggs, the smell waking the whole pack up, as they stumble sleepily down the stairs.  He throws together prickly pear smoothies for the pack: Derek having fallen in love with the cactus fruit during his time in the desert. 

Before taking off on his morning run through the preserve, Derek sits down opposite Stiles in his wifebeater and running shorts, and places his outstretched hand beside Stiles' on the table, wordlessly asking permission.  Stiles lets his hand fall open and Derek takes it, bringing it up to his mouth, kissing the soft skin, before he disappears out the back patio, the door swinging lightly behind him. 

Stiles knows he's ready, but things feel so different.  Derek is so different.  He's still the man he fell in love with his first year in Berkley when Stiles realized that he wasn't only missing his pack but also their surly Alpha.  Still the same man who drove four hours to comfort a panicking Stiles during his second year finals.  Still the same man who thought the only way to calm down Stiles during a panic attack was to kiss the hell out of him and confess his love.

Derek's still the same man, but now he's just a little bit more.  Together.  Less fragmented.  Whatever you call it.  And Stiles is so ready for things to go back to normal between them after Derek made it abundantly obviously clear he was too.

That night Stiles and Derek go about their usual routine, Stiles taking a shower, making sure to wash himself properly.  When he steps out of the ensuite, towel wrapped around his waist, Derek is sitting up in bed, reading Stiles' copy of Catch-22.  Derek looks up when he sees Stiles opening the bathroom door, steam flooding out around him.  Stiles watches Derek's eyes rake up and down his body, lingering a step longer on his hipbones.  When he makes it up to his eyes, and Derek sees Stiles caught him looking he blushes a pretty pink, his face flooding.

Stiles nods his head to the book just barely clutched in Derek's hand.  "How is it?"

"Wha-"  Derek's voice cracks, before he clears it with a cough.  "What?"

"Catch-22?  How do you feel about Yossarian's character?"

"I'm only five pages in, Stiles."

"Oh."  Stiles fidgets, his toes curling in the plush rug.  "Okay, since you're not absorbed yet, can we talk?"

"Sure."  Derek book marks the page before setting the novel down on the bedside table.

Stiles drops the towel. 

Derek makes a strange gasping sound, croaking.  "I thought you said you wanted to talk?!"

Stiles walks over and lays down on his side of the bed beside Derek.  He reaches into his nightstand grabbing a sharpie, before shutting the drawer with a click.

"C'mon."  He motions to Derek.  "Here."  Stiles hands the sharpie over.  "You know what they look like."

Derek stares at him, and gently takes the sharpie from him, uncapping it, before staring at Stiles' naked form, his eyes dragging up and down his figure, like he's trying to memorize him.  "Are you sure?"

"Stiles reaches out, grabbing Derek's wrist, squeezing it in affirmation.  "Yes.  Now get drawing sourwolf."  Stiles stretches out, shutting his eyes with a smile.

Derek drags his calloused thumb along Stiles' right hipbone where his old appendectomy scar used to rest.  Derek takes the sharpie and draws a quick solid line in its shape.  Stiles opens his eyes and watches the look of concentration on Derek's face as he draws out Stiles' memories and accidents.

Derek moves his hand up Stiles stomach briefly tangling his fingers in the dark hair around his belly button, and Stiles feels the stirrings of arousal.  Derek moves his massive flat palm over the ridges of Stiles' nondescript abs, up to his neck and he draws a jagged black mark where Stiles' broken clavicle pierced through his skin.  Derek drags fingers up Stiles' neck to the back of his head, tangling in the short hair behind.  He gazes at Stiles through his lashes for a short moment, before bringing his head down and kissing him gently and chastely, before pulling back.

Derek nudges at his side, and Stiles turns on his front.  Derek trails his palm down Stiles' back to the cleft of his ass, before Derek lifts his hand, resting it on a cheek.  Stiles feels the sharpie dig into his skin as Derek draws the perfect circle of a full moon.  He moves the marker up to the next knob of his spine, drawing another circle, but filling in a small part of it.  He continues the process until he reaches the new moon in the middle of his back.  He presses a kiss to the blackened skin, murmuring against it.  "I'm sorry."

Stiles reaches a hand down, tangling it in Derek's hair.  "Shh, keep drawing."  And Derek does.  When he reaches the top knob of Stiles' spine, drawing in the final full moon, Stiles lifts himself up and turns around to face Derek, who stares at him with a look of utter adoration on his face, before pressing another soft kiss to Stiles' lips.  Derek drags his soft lips and stubbled chin along Stiles' cheekbone, before dipping his tongue into Stiles' ear, biting at the helix. 

Stiles gasps and intakes a short breath, his heart speeding up like a jackrabbit, Derek hears it, and Stiles feels him grin into his ear, before moving on and burying his face in Stiles neck.  He licks and kisses apologies into the soft skin.  Eventually Stiles tires of Derek's ministrations, and he pushed him off, shoving him onto his ass.  Stiles climbs into his lap, and Derek rubs his hands up and down Stiles arms.  Derek grabs the sharpie from where it dropped, ruining their sheets, leaving black ink marks all over the white cotton.

He takes Stiles' left palm, and presses a kiss to the centre of it, before tangling their fingers together.  Bringing Stiles' thumb to his mouth, Derek runs his teeth over the callus, biting softly before taking the sharpie and drawing a large dot slightly off center.  It's where, in his last year of highschool, Stiles accidently stabbed himself with a pencil during exams.  A mark developed and never went away.  It's strange that Derek remembers that, and doesn't seem to think it's just another one of his moles.

"I noticed it during the pack meet when we celebrated graduation.  I never saw any moles on your palms before, so I thought it strange that one would suddenly develop."  Derek smiles at him.  "I looked it up on your laptop, and freaked out when WebMD insisted you developed melanoma."

Stiles bursts out laughing.  "You thought I had skin cancer?"

"For a while actually."  Derek nods his head, grinning, other hand gripping Stiles' thigh.  "I kept making up excuses to be around you, trying to scent for any sign of sickness, but after months of nothing, I just figured your weird body magics moles into being."

Stiles looks at him under his eyelashes.  "You like my body."

Derek nods, his eyes crinkling.  "I do.  I really do."  He sighs.  "But now that the mark is gone, I wonder what it was."

"Pencil lead."  Stiles answers with a smirk.

"Seriously?"  Derek raises a brow at him.

"Yup.  Shanked myself with a pencil, I was so nervous during my chemistry exam.  Harris kept sending me these dirty looks."  Stiles smiles.  "Had to go to the nurses' office it was bleeding so much, but you should have seen Harris' face.  He looked like he would faint at any second."  

Derek laughs heartedly.  Letting go of Stiles' hand, he runs his fingers through Stiles' hair.  "I fucking love you, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, Derek.  I do.  I really do."

 Derek's thumb runs along Stiles' cheekbones before he grips the back of his neck, his hazel eyes bright and vibrant.  Months ago his eyes were full of nothing  but hatred and anger, and it astonishes Stiles to see how far he's come.  It makes him catch his breath, to see just how beautiful this man is, right now in front of him. 

Stiles leans his forehead against Derek's,  staring deep into his eyes, before pressing a light kiss to his mouth, pulling back and whispering.  "I want to ride you."

Derek swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, before he surges back up, bringing Stiles into a deep kiss, teeth clacking with intensity.

Stiles breaks the kiss, climbing off of Derek's lap, assuring him, "Be right back."  He gets off the bed, while Derek sits back against the headboard, peeling his shirt off.  Stiles watches the play of his muscles for a moment before Derek raises a brow at him, and Stiles blushes, reaching down to rummage under bed.

"Ta dah!"  He exclaims pulling out a Meermin shoe box.  The contents of the box used to occupy Stiles' bedside drawer, but Derek packed it up when he unsuccessfully tried to move him out of the house.  The box remained under the bed when they moved Stiles' things back into the room, the two of them unwilling the address the contents at the time.

Stiles opens the box, and places it on the bedside table.  He draws out two latex gloves and a bottle of lube, throwing them at  Derek, grinning, before climbing back into Derek's lap.  Derek's hands bracket his hips as Stiles settles comfortably, Derek's thumb nudging the sharpie appendectomy scar.

Stiles scrubs his long fingers through Derek's stubble.  "Your honors, or mine?"  He asks.

"Mine."  Derek answers, picking up the gloves, pulling them on with a clinical snap that Stiles always finds hot, maybe because it's an sign of imminent good times.

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles' waist and effortlessly rolls them, lightly pinning Stiles to the bed, before slinking down to the vee of his legs, resting on his stomach.  Stiles' cock fills at Derek's close proximity.  "Fuck."  He whines when Derek exhales a warm breath through the soft brown curls at the base of his dick.

Derek laughs lightly, running a gloved finger up a vein, "I'm going to blow you now."  He waits for Stiles to nod his head yes, before boldly swallowing Stiles' semi down to the root, bracketing his hips when Stiles inevitably bucks up into the warm, wet heat.  "Derek."  Stiles gasps, leaning back on his elbows, gazing down at him; Derek's cheeks hallowed, tongue moving filthy, his eyes wide open gazing right back at him.  "Dammit, please."  He begs and Derek relents, pulling off of his throbbing cock with an obscene little _pop_.  He leans over Stiles, eyelids heavy with a mixture of love and lust, and reaches for the lube and a strip of condoms. 

Derek settles back down between Stiles' thighs, spreading them further.  Stiles hears a click, as Derek opens the tube of lube, spreading slick on his fingers, and a warm finger reaches down to encircle his rim, gently massaging when Stiles clenches.  "Hey."  Derek runs a hand calmly up the underside of his thigh, stopping at the dip behind his knee.  "Relax."  Derek pushes both of Stiles' legs up and hooks knees over shoulders, almost bending Stiles in half, bringing his straining dick just that much closer to Derek's face.  Stiles can _feel_ Derek's soft breaths over the velvet skin.

A lubed finger dips in and Stiles gasps, Derek sucking him back into his mouth, tonguing at the head, moaning when Derek's tongue dips in just the _right_ place.

It feels like an eternity before Derek slips in another finger and starts scissoring, stretching Stiles out.  It always feels weird at first, fingers are not supposed to go there, but Derek distracts his attention away with the heat of his mouth worrying at his cock, before adding a third finger along with more lube, thrusting them in and out.

Stiles notices the very subtle flex of Derek's lower back, as he lightly ruts into the mattress in time to the thrust of his fingers, his gorgeous ass obscured by loose sweats.  Stiles untangles his hand from its death grip in the sheets to run through the soft blackness of Derek's hair, and it sends a spike of want up his stomach when Derek moans around his cock. 

Stiles' voice is almost unrecognizable and husky when he speaks.  "C'mon Derek, I want to see you.  Take them off."  Stiles nudges the waistband of the sweats with a toe.

"Yeah."  Derek groans, pulling off the gloves and tossing them off the bed in the direction of the waste basket.  He lifts Stiles' legs gently off his shoulders, and they bend at the knee on the bed, fully open, on display for Derek.  "Fuck."  Derek scrambles off his stomach onto his butt, franticly pulling his sweats off one leg at a time, cock slapping out.  Derek readjusts himself kneeling on the bed, spitting into his hand and firmly stoking his cock as he watches Stiles stroking himself, his hole open and ready, with heavily lidded eyes.

Derek reaches for the strip of condoms, but Stiles quickly sits up and grabs Derek's wrist when he goes to pick up the foil wrapper.  "Don't wear a condom." 

Derek  pauses.  "But you hate having come inside you."

"Yeah well, I want to really feel you this time.  It's fine, you can help me wash it out later.  In the shower.  With your tongue."  Stiles winks and Derek's pupils expand, his hand reaches and grips Stiles' knee tightly.

"Okay."  Derek nods his head slowly.  "Okay, Stiles."

"C'mon, switch places."  Stiles pulls Derek's wrist and he moves, crawls forward to the headboard, turns around and lies on his back, his head resting on a pillow.  Stiles climbs over his thighs, straddling him, bracing one palm against Derek's pec.  He grabs the lube, and slicks Derek up, moving Derek's hands from where they're gripping Stiles' thighs, up his body to his waist, smiling at the man underneath him. 

Stiles moves forward, until his balls nudge the head of Derek's dick, anticipation thrumming in his veins, when he gazes down at Derek, watching his eyes widen in wonder as Stiles grabs him, his hands stroking once, twice, before he moves Derek's cock to the cleft of his ass, pressing him in gently.

Derek groans, his eyes wide open and his human fingers dig harder into Stiles' sides.  "Oh god, Stiles."  Derek moans throatily, when Stiles sinks just a little bit deeper wiggling his hips, still adjusting to the feel of Derek in him.

When Stiles thinks he's ready, and he feels Derek's hips jittering, trying so hard to hold back the deep thrusts he's aching for, he slowly sinks all the way down, Derek filling him up, Stiles eyes wide staring up at the ceiling as he adjusts to the feeling of _fullness_.

And then Stiles starts to move.  He doesn't have the muscled thighs nor the energy to bounce up and down like Derek does when he rides Stiles, so he just rests his hands down firmly against Derek's pecs, and _grinds,_ in circles, back and forth, trying to build a pleasurable rhythm _._

He looks down at Derek, sees him, his eyes rolled back in his head, hands gripping so tight, but strangely not enough to bruise.  Stiles is so used to waking up to deep, dark bruises the nights after they had sex.  He knows there'll be no bruises dotting his skin come morning.

It's Derek's control, he's holding himself back from hurting Stiles.  Sometimes Stiles loves the bruises, but right now he's just so damned proud of Derek, he adds another flick of his hips to the end of each grind, and Derek moans his name unabashedly.

Stiles concentrates so hard, trying to find his prostrate, he doesn't even notice Derek's hands moving up, until they grab him by the shoulders, pulling him down in a deep involved kiss, tongue thrusting and teeth biting, and Derek's cock finally slides along that spot inside him.  Three grinds later and Stiles is coming untouched in long stripes on Derek's stomach.  Derek moans grabbing, and stroking him gently through his orgasm, before smoothly pulling out.  He flips them both over, settling once again in the vee of Stiles' legs as he strips his own cock efficiently, coming only seconds later, streaking Stiles' chest and stomach.

Thankfully Derek has the presence of mind to grab tissues off the night table, wiping off both of their come.  Stiles, too fucked out to do anything more than lift his butt up, as Derek wipes off the extra lube running down his thighs and balls.  He tosses the tissues in the same direction as the gloves, before falling down on the mattress beside Stiles, jostling the bed with his weight, as they lie shoulder to shoulder, Stiles staring up at the ceiling.

Eventually Stiles relents, and turns his head to face Derek, only to see him already turned towards him, eyes running all over his face, studying.  "Hey."  Stiles says, turning fully on his side to face Derek.

"Hey."

Stiles gulps.  "That was..." 

"Yeah."

"Amazing."  Stiles finishes.

"Why tonight?"

"Huh?"

"We haven't even kissed in months, why did you want to have sex tonight?"

Stiles laughs, and cuddles up closer to Derek to rest his head on his shoulder.  Derek brings his hand up to tug Stiles closer, so he's half sprawled on top of him.  "Truth be told, I just wanted you to draw on me, but I guess I just got caught in the moment."  Stiles thinks of his time in the shower, soaping himself up there, and then he supposes he had at least some idea what would happen tonight.

"Are we okay?"  Derek asks, his fingers running down Stiles' spine in swirls, tracing the tattoo.

Stiles smiles into Derek's chest.  "Tomorrow, I'll check if Julian has any free timeslots.  Do you want to come with me to San Fran to get these marks tattooed on?"

Derek pauses in his fingers movements, and reaches up to run his fingers through Stiles' hair.  "Yeah. I'd like that."

"And Derek?"

"Yeah, Stiles?"

"We're perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man I just love stories where Stiles and Derek are such assholes to each other, so I had to go and write one up. Goodness, now I'm wondering what would happen if Stiles turns into a werewolf, and then dies. Would he reset back to human? Maybe I'll continue with this universe, and explore that... hmm...

**Author's Note:**

> Explicit descriptions of choking, and violence, minor mentions of alpha mind control.
> 
> Stiles' Moon Phases tattoo - http://simplysmilingandsmoking.tumblr.com/post/63498955969


End file.
